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The Master makes a bargain: that Margarethe cook and clean without direction, that Ruth gather wildflowers for his painting, and that Iris, plain and bright, sit for him to draw. They can stay, at least until the Master's apprentice returns from a journey on the painter's behalf. They enter willingly, until Iris sees the sketches of nudes that the Master uses for his paintings. Wordlessly, the girl points them out to her mother, who inquires—they are very hungry—if it is the Master's intention the girl sit for him undraped. He denies it vigorously, sends the mother to market on credit, and both the girls to gather flowers, telling Iris she looks like a crone before her time.

But not before Iris has looked around to see a glory of paintings of religious subjects, and heard the Master's weary tirade that the Dutch, the Protestant Dutch, do not love such pictures overmuch, preferring portraits and still-lifes. He also "catalogs the corruption of the world" but those paintings—perhaps even less salable than the others—are kept in a locked room. Iris cannot bring herself to even glance at the door. He numbers among these misfits a gloriously beautiful girl the little family had caught a glimpse of before that window, too, slammed shut, after Ruth, thick and dull, had taken or been given a wooden windmill.

Because of his age, and very little else, he reminds Iris of her father, not yet a week dead and very possibly unburied. The thought dogs her like a minor demon, and the Master sends the two sisters off, having first told them the directions to the field. Off they go through the city, which is not quite foreign—they speak Dutch as well as English—but which is unfamiliar. Not even the sights of the prosperous port turn Iris's thoughts from the night of her father's death, when the people that had once been their neighbors came for their mother and them in the night and they scarcely managed to slip away from the mob.

Having set her simple sister about the task, Iris seeks refuge in looking about her. She climbs an aged apple tree and looks at the place she has come to: There is much to see and Iris, who tells stories for herself and her sister, imagines more. That plume of smoke might be from a dragon...

(to be continued)

The picture is an annunciation by Peter Paul Rubens; Click on it for closer look.

Publisher Jim Baen has died of a stroke. Baen worked his way up from virtually nothing to become a pioneering publisher who managed to make e-publishing not only pay, but pay well. The field will miss him, since he groomed many new writers and helped many established ones through slumps and hard times. More at David Drake on Jim Baen and at Boing Boing.

In due course, the King, a handsome man, married a woman who was in every respect his equal and a paragon of the feminine virtues. Married in the spring, she gave birth to a son in the depths of winter, and the boy was fair and healthy. His proud father named him Host-lord after his kindred of old and gave a great feast on the day the child's name was proclaimed. All were welcome in the hall, for there was enough and more for everyone, so it was no surprise that there were strangers among the crowd.

As the King walked among the tables, greeting his guests, he beheld an old man, who was of uncommon stature despite his age, and dressed so that the King thought of the Kings of the Ancient World when he looked upon him. At this kingly figure's side sat a woman, also old yet hale and of noble bearing. He had already noticed that the table where they sat was more joyous than any other, and the King stopped and spoke to the carle, asking if all was well.

"There is little lack in this house today," was the answer.

"What lack at all do you find therein?" asked the King.

And the man sang in a great voice:

"Erst was the earth
Fulfilled of mirth:
Our swords were sheen
in the summer green;
And we rode and ran
Through the winter wan..."

Concluding,

"Though the wild wind might splinter
The oak-tree of Thor,
The hand of mid-winter
But beat on the door."

Famed author J. K. Rowling has said that two out of three of the main characters of her series about the boy wizard will die, and that one received a last minute reprieve. She refused to identify which characters were doomed, although she did say that she understood authors who wished to kill off a favorite character to prevent sequels being created by other writers. Rowling spoke on a television show on the BBC's Channel Four and has been quoted in a number of publications including Showbiz News and the BBC News.

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America announced the creation of an emblem for the Andre Norton Award for Best Young Adult Science Fiction or Fantasy Novel of the Year. Designed by artist James F. Beveridge, the emblem features a gryphon, symbolic of Ms. Norton's Witch World series. Click on the image for a larger version or the full size design can be seen at Norton Award Design. The first Andre Norton Award was presented this May to Valiant, by Holly Black, published by Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing.

Independent publisher Lyle Stuart—whose Naked Came the Stranger was a partial inspiration for the more recent genre-related Atlanta Nights—died June 24, 2006. He published The Rich and the Super-Rich, Inside The FBI, The Sensuous Woman, and many others, some of which expressed opinions that were not his own. It was his contention that the public had a right to many viewpoints, even those that made uncomfortable or disturbing reading, like the book that tells people how to make bombs, The Anarchist Cookbook. The New York Times covers his life in more depth.

There's a new webzine, with some pointed fiction, fiction that didn't quite fit onto the Procrustean beds of the few editors who still work for the dwindling number of print publications: Helix SF. It's run on the principle of the storyteller's bowl. If you like the story, you are expected to toss a coin or three into the teller's bowl, to induce him to tell another. Here are a few teasers about the contents of the first issue, July 1, 2006.

Singer/songwriter Janis Ian is happy to have joined the mainstream by becoming a science fiction writer—mainstream?—but her observations have not grown less sharp than they were many years ago when she became famous for "Society's Child." I leave it to you whether she hasn't seasoned "Mahmoud's Wives" with a generous pinch of something else.

There's Beth Bernobich's tale about happy—well—family holidays and keeping it all among the cousins: The food, the old stories, the new gossip, the over-familiar kin, the gifts, and the unexpected present. It all has a certain Je ne sais quoi and that "I know not what" is what makes all the difference.

Bud Webster's excursion into the dangerous world of loofah mining has to be read to be disbelieved. Spoiler warning: Pet lovers will be glad to know that all the oil-drenched Mexican hairless dogs come back safe and sound, scrubbed a glowing pink, and happy, but that's a footnote in this compelling study of the exploitation of our natural resources.

But I won't spoil all the surprises, even by giving teasers: click through and check Helix out.

"The first time that Christa Malone heard the name of Innokenti Isayeveich Falin it was spoken by the President of the United States, John F. Kennedy," is both the first sentence and the first paragraph of The Translator.

Christa, a high senior, is being received along with other young poets between the day's business and the Kennedy's leaving for an official function. The President and his lady are in full evening dress, and so glamorous that the First Lady's dress reminds the girl of the robes of an El Greco cardinal.

The President takes a little longer to speak with Christa than when any of the other young poets, commenting on the new poet from Russia. The moment inspires that last poem that Christa will write for many years, "What the Tiger Told Me."

Much later, older and wiser, Christa will wonder if the President sensed what she herself didn't yet know then: That she was pregnant.

Even later she will help the Russian poet make a rough, unrhymed translation of the poem he wrote on the plane coming to the US, which plays upon the fact that 1961, can, in many fonts, be flipped over and remain the same year date.

It will be a fulcrum year, not just for her, or for the Russian poet, but for the world: It is the year of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and Christa's father, who has never had much to say about is job, will be one of the faceless players in a chess match which must be a draw for both sides, or the outcome will be the death of millions.

Jack Jackson, better known by his working name of Jaxon, died shortly after his sixty-fifth birthday. Famous as the first of the underground comix artists, Jackson later turned to American history—with a twist—as material for his art. His style heavily influenced other underground artists, such as Crumb, but as he moved into graphic novels, its extreme detail produced an effect similar to woodcuts. (click on the picture)